


Abandoned

by agglutinin_A



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 10:11:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17937848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agglutinin_A/pseuds/agglutinin_A
Summary: The pilgrim is the one who was abandoned.





	Abandoned

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this several months ago when I just finished watching Hirukao, the TV series which Saitoh Takumi had starred in. The ending song called Never Again was really impressive and I was actually inspired by it, so it is highly recommended to read while listening.  
> Thank my lovely teacher for suggestions and corrections!

The fair man stopped in front of the church, surveying the building.

The mottled wall clearly showed the fact that it was derelict already, although the way metallic vines crawled up the doorpost had implied it was once carefully decorated. The coloured glass of the rose window had been shattered, revealing the dull, black iron skeleton. It seemed that it had been left for a decade or so, but the actual time period might be shorter, for weather here was indeed damp all year round.

Anyway. He arched an eyebrow, deciding not to speculate upon the meaningless puzzle.

Nobody would appear in such an isolated place, especially in a silent drizzling dusk. The man snorted, showing obvious disrelish towards the weather, yet his clothes were oddly dry.

The whole building was really not in accord with his aesthetics. It shouldn't be this lifeless.

He stepped in, and tensed slightly at the first sight.

No statues of anyone. Only frescoes. All around on those high walls, of the same person. Drinking, napping, reading. Fair hair, gorgeous appearance, mole under outer corner of his right eye. Vivid arrogance in his every move was amazingly elegant, a destined king looking down to everyone who set foot in his palace.

Without the wings of the protagonist, these artworks seemed just like portraits of a real person.

The location of the building in the outskirts made any visitor not so ordinary, but the obscurity hadn't chilled the diligence, or piety of the priest—— The one who had created all these, on his own.

Outside the rain was getting noisier.

A layer of ash on the ground was surprisingly thin. Maybe the door had never ever been opened in these years, thanks to its isolation. His expression was unreadable in the dark. But a trail of light flickered merrily when he snapped his fingers, then the half-burnt candles around were lit.

He gazed at the frescoes in the candlelight, noticing something extraodinary: In all of the tableaus there were roses. On the goblet, under the pillow, on the book cover. All blooming freshly, like flames.

The wind started whistling.

He stepped closer. Although he could easily tell every infinitesimal detail from far away, it was as if he was seduced and nothing was else left in his mind, other than the desire to get closer to the genius who had created this elaborate universe. And he would love to.

It was then that something sparkling attracted him. He turned to the bench and found a piece of glass lying there, which he realized was a monocle after a while.

Clouds darken the firmament abnormally.

 

_The first time they met he had run away from the place he was suggested to stay, or imprisoned. He prefered the latter word. He was trying to get some water, but how to draw water from a stream was too confusing for someone who was pampered like him._

_Then he heard the tempting voice from behind him, laced with amusement._

_"May I have the honour to offer any help? " The priest looked at the mark under the corner of his eye, and added, "My rose?"_

_He snorted, but passed the jug to him. The priest just smiled, unfathomably, no annoyance expressed for the arrogance he deliberately displayed, and invited him to have a rest in his church._

_It was clean and energetic, with plants and flowers in every corner. As he was browsing the inside of the church, the priest put his monocle on, casually leant against the back of a bench, and started reading a book._

_It was then he figured out where the strange appellation came from. **The Little Prince**._

 

Lightning slashed through the dark curtains.

He realised the glimmer wasn't coming from the monocle. He frowned, lifting his gaze minutely.

His heart twisted for some ineffable reason. A blade. Though it laid just besides the monocle it had been ignored at first because part of it was covered. By rust, he supposed.

 

_He had stayed with the priest for several days, for some reasons he wasn't quite sure until now. The priest had a garden to take care of, or he would continue with the unfinished frescoes if he was in the mood. Traditional ones for a church, not a single brush similar with what he finally drawn. As a priest he seldom read the Bible. He cooked well. He actually had no problem in seeing things but wore that piece of glass just for fun. His eyes were disconcertingly beautiful._

_But he had no more time to find out more about him, for they, those called themselves his servants but more liked his shackles, had finally managed to find him. When they tried to persuade him to retured to that splendid prison, they called out his name._

_Even he had never expected that the first reaction of himself was to turn and tried to find any expression change of the priest. But the man just smiled. He was always smiling._

_"What a brilliant tale, " He chuckled. "I have happened to hosted an angel. "_

_A perfect smile. A perfect obeisance towards his carriage when he had to leave at last._

 

Thunder.

Instinctively he chose not to go to the altar until he had studied all the rest part of frescoes, behind which was the largest drawing. The familiar garden, the familiar blossom, the familiar person.

In the middle there was a rose, the colour of which was slightly distinct from any other one. It was a deeper, thicker, and heavier red.

He hesitated, with a sudden raise of dread. But the pause was pointless. For the first time he hated his excellent sight, for he had irreversibly realised why it was this alluring, like abysses with the song of a siren.

It wasn't rust.

He suddenly lost the power to even stand on his feet, as his hand brushed a book on the altar in his dizziness. Something tugged at his heart before he had even realised what it was. He struggled to braced himself, but managed to reached the book and pick it up, before it fell from his trembling fingers, opening and revealing the title page.

The storm finally hit.

He collapsed to his knees as he ultimately recognised that line of neat, curlsive handwriting in his blurred vision. 

 

_To be your nightingale is my highest honour._


End file.
